


Desperate Moves

by Gh0stFl0ra



Series: Raven in the Cage [1]
Category: KISS (US Band)
Genre: 1980s, Backwards Backbend, Dive Bars, Gay Male Character, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Paul's a bi disaster, Rating May Change, Trans Female Character, poor portrayal of Harlem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25495645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gh0stFl0ra/pseuds/Gh0stFl0ra
Summary: After KISS fires Mark St John, they're left without a reliable guitarist. Desperate, and needing to clear his head, Paul Stanley heads to Harlem, and is astounded by a young woman in a band playing bar gigs. KISS hires the woman, but there seems to be something, off about her.
Relationships: n/a, past Paul Stanley/Ace Frehley
Series: Raven in the Cage [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1846963
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4





	1. Black Market Buzz

**Author's Note:**

> So I may screw up with certain dates and character portrayals. I apologize in advance. I also apologize for any really demeaning views shown.

March, 1984

Paul's P.O.V

"Where are we supposed to find a new guitarist? We can't call any of them back. You fired Mark, Vinnie's God knows where, and the less we have to deal with Ace, the better", Gene snaps over the phone. 

"I don't know, is the problem. We're going through them like a quarterback going through the cheer squad", I shoot back, pacing in my living room. 

"Well, you'd better think of something before Doc loses his mind!", Gene hangs up quickly, causing the receiver to hum. My brain feels like its on fire as I grab my wallet and keys, and head to the subway. 

The ride to Harlem always feels surreal to me, especially at the sunset hours. You're surrounded by drag queens, punks, junkies, you name it; backlit by greasy fluorescent bulbs and scented with tobacco and cheap cologne. But, the further away I get from Brooklyn, the better my headache fares. The night seems to have started by the time I get off the subway. The doors open as I put a pair of sunglasses over my eyes. Some of the strangers gawk in awe, others sneer. I walk around for a good hour or so, before stopping by a bar called 'Black Market'. A neon sign advertises live music tonight. I suppose I'm feeling nostalgic as I enter and sit close to the back, so that the light is more concealing. A waitress with too much lipstick takes my order, a quick mimosa, before handing over a pen and memo pad. 

"It's request night. They've got range, I promise", she smiles. Why not? 

I jot down 'I Love It Loud' for shits and giggles, before handing it back, along with some cash. The waitress stares at it for a few moments, before shrugging. Later, I take a sip of my mimosa, as a slightly disheveled, rather attractive Italian man sits at the nearby table. 

"Made it just in time", he huffs. 'At least he's enthusiastic'. I take another sip before he starts up a conversation. 

"Dante Lombardi", he extends a hand to me. The name sounds familiar. 

"You write for SNL, don't you?", I ask, accepting his handshake. Dante nods, before mumbling about how he needs a vacation. "Call me Paul", 

The waitress returns to Dante's table, pad and pen on her. He orders a Negroni, and scribbles down a song. 

"My daughter's playing tonight, and we're both Black Sabbath fans, so I picked something of theirs", 

"Iron Man?", I groan. He laughs, but proceeds to explain how the two of them can't stand that song. "So, what does your daughter look like, if you don't mind me asking?", He holds a finger out, as he searches for his wallet. When he retrieves it again, he takes out a picture of a black haired girl, around 19 years old. She's as pale as a sheet, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut someone. I nod, taking another sip of my drink. The small stage is half set up, cheap gearboxes hooked to not so cheap amps. A drumset is wheeled in, the phrase 'Lucky Star' stenciled on the bass drum.

Someone shows up to check the microphone, sending a screech through the bar. 11:30 P.M. and the band is announced, with each member dressed in strange outfits. The drummer reminds me of a gay Johnny Thunders, the bassist, a Mexican Kim Alexis. Their singer seems to have raided the ladies section of a department store, and a glitter factory. The guitarist, Dante's daughter, has a neon pink scarf, tank top, leather miniskirt, and hacked up tights, as well as a set of worn Doc Martens. They do a quick sound check, before Glitter takes the request list. 

"How are we doing tonight?", he asks, to a mumble, "So, a lot of KISS and Alice Cooper fans here tonight, huh?", a cough. 

"Let's just get started", the singer points to the guitarist, and announces , "No More Mr Nice Guy", the opening notes play, as he starts. Something feels off, though. As if he's disgusted with the song. The bassist is awkwardly swaying, as if she's high. The drummer's desperate to keep up, as the high point hits, the guitarist flies through it, as if the act is second nature. The song ends with a few cheers. Another look at the list. "Parasite", 

"Cherry practiced that one for days, I don't think she'll mess up", Dante comments. Again, the drummer and guitarist carry it, the bassist is nearly passed out. Cherry's keeping time by tapping the heel of her boot, and bobbing her head. She clearly knows her way around the song. I reciprocate somewhat, watching as they hit the solo. Cherry looks at the audience and bends herself to face us, her fingers flying over the strings. That, I did not expect.

"How long's she been playing for?", I ask, a genuine interest growing. 

"Seven years", Dante takes a sip of his drink. I blink, 'seven years to play like that?'. 

"Get her an agent, Lombardi", I laugh, and drink more. They play for, I forget how long, until they hit my request. It's either the drink, or my own sense of excitement that causes me to cheer. The drummer and Cherry need to be in a better band, they're clearly better musicians than the other two. At the end of the song, Glitter wipes his sweat from under his pageboy cap. 

He huffs, before announcing the last song of the night. N.I.B.. The bassist gets the hint, and starts off, albeit, a bit too forced. Cherry picks up with flourish, but Glitter's no Ozzy Osbourne. I bob my head in time with her, not caring if I look like an idiot right now. The song continues, nearly perfect, and- the solos. The first, she repeats the same backbend, winking. Then jumps back to the rest. The second, the second, is insane. The backwards backbend changes to rutting, shaking her head, and standing slanted on tiptoes. My eyes feel like they could pop out of the sockets, and my pulse races.

I think I've found our new guitarist. 


	2. Starry Eyed Girls

Paul's P.O.V

"Thank you for coming", the exhausted singer pants, as some of the patrons cheer. "We'll see you again next week", Cherry runs to her dad, guitar in its case. 

"You were great up there, pumpkin", he ruffles her hair. 

"You were the one who requested N.I.B, weren't you?", she beams, hopped up on adrenaline. He gives her a look that reads 'what gave it away', which she smirks at. The girl's focus turns to me, eyebrow raised. "Is this one of your 'writer's guild' friends?", Dante scoffs, and shakes his head. He's cheating on his wife with his co workers, isn't he? 

"This is Paul, he says you need an agent, or something", the Italian explains, to which his daughter laughs uproariously. She's either playing around, or legitimately finds this idea ridiculous. I can't discern which. But, one thing still presses on my mind. Ask her if she would accept the job. A loud bang interrupts my train of thought, and the three of us instinctively turn towards the stage. Glitter seemingly dropped an amp. 

"Dammit, Patrick", the gangly woman hisses under her breath. She tries to rush back to him, but Dante picks up my plan. She reluctantly sits at the other end of my table, as the lighting increases. "So, you really think I need an agent?". I nod, swirling what's left of my drink in the glass. Cherry taps her fingers on the wood, mumbling something. 

"Let me put it like this, you and the drummer are the only ones in that band who legitimately have some potential. If you wanted to do something bigger, then it would be in your, best interest to have one", she seemingly follows, crossing her legs. 

"Well, I don't know who would hire me," her voice trails to a whisper, as she glances at the stage again. Patrick is sashaying over in red platform boots to the bartender, lips in a snarl. "I'm no Ace Frehley", she jokes. Another idea pops up. 

"I take it your band's into KISS?", I slide the question in, hoping to hook her. Cherry nods intently, but not so subtly discusses Patrick's distaste, compared to her other bandmates. 

"He thinks it's music for horny teen girls, and over macho football fans," she giggles, revealing the slight gap in her front teeth. The statement sounds absurd, but coming from someone who-presents that way, I wouldn't be surprised. But, while I've got her invested, I give the offer. 

"Well," I start, pulling off the sunglasses, "How would you feel if I said we've got a spot for a guitarist?", Her dark brown eyes shimmer, and widen, as her mouth drops open. She quickly shuts it, and asks if it would be okay to scream. "Go ahead", 

She screams like a banshee in heat, quickly alerting the others. Patrick's clutching a bottle of Fanta, when he strides over. 

"This again, Cherry?", he sneers, "You can't just scream all the time, especially when I know it's you, and not some hot thing with a cute set of bicep-breasts!", he catches himself. She immediately looks remorseful, and starts apologizing. Patrick isn't having any of it, as he scowls at the two of us. 

"We're going in five minutes, wrap up the conversation with this cocksucker", he fans his hand towards us. Cherry's face begins to resemble her namesake, as she rises from her seat. 

"Patrick, what are you doing? Honestly? Between insulting us, shoving your supposed superiority in our faces all the fucking time, and now this, insulting Paul friggin' Stanley, what are you even doing?", she snaps, a sudden coldness to her voice. He swallows, but returns to his little tirade. 

"I don't care if you're having a bitchfit over him, we're going in five", Patrick taps her forehead with his soda, which she promptly grabs, shakes, and twists the cap off, effectively hosing him with it. I stifle my laughter behind my hand. He slaps her face, and pushes her to the floor. "You're fired", he smiles. But, as the little man sashays off, I decide I'm done with this bar. I gesture Cherry and Dante outside, and we exchange phone numbers. Hers is written in eyeliner pencil on a napkin, mine in pen on the back of a miscellaneous business card.

"I'm sorry if I overreacted, really I am", she hands me the napkin, as I hand her the card. I excuse her, and tell her to call me if she accepts the offer. "I will, thank you so much", she smiles, showing the gap in her teeth again. 

The ride back is calmer, as I sit next to a passed out junkie. I look over her number again, but reality hits me like a truck. What will Gene and Eric think? The question runs through my mind even after I get off the subway, and up until I unlock my door. 


	3. Author's note

Okay, so you know what I said about mixing dates up? Yeah, I may do that more. Allegedly, the Creatures of The Night tour was also in 1984, if the deleted scene from Why Him proves anything. It's also an excuse to have Cherry wear the makeup. I don't know. I'm also trying to develop the sort of view Gene has on her, either slightly pigheaded and seeing her as a joke initially, or convinced that she's wasting her time with them at first. The series is going to get darker, and there's going to be some period typical homophobia/transphobia. I'm still planning the rest out, but I can give you a few tidbits of information. 

1\. Eric finds out Cherry was born male, via her dead name (Robert). He promises not to tell anyone. 

2\. Blackie Lawless will be involved at some point. 

3\. Two half a million dollar birthday parties are going to be thrown. 

4\. Merchandise problems, Cherry doesn't want her face on anything that isn't a t-shirt, poster, or action figure. Gene, Paul, and the merch team want her face on basically anything. 

Feel free to disregard this, as it's basically word vomit at the moment. 


	4. The Verdict (part one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for the mention of AIDS. I do not know the names for separate parts of a cordless phone, so I'll be calling the 'phone' part a receiver.

Paul's P.O.V

The sound of the phone ringing wakes me up, the clock telling me it's 9 in the morning, Saturday, March 10th. A loud 'crack' says Gene's here. 

"Hello?", I answer, slightly groggy. 

"Hi, Paul, it's Cherry", 

"Hi, Cherry," I reply, yanking the covers off of me, "How are you?", 

"I'm good, I'm good. I'm calling about your offer", I nod, pulling the receiver off the base, "I thought it over, and I accept", 

"That's great", I say, doodling on a nearby piece of paper, "Oh, how's Patrick?", I add, my tone more teasing. She sighs, and begins to elaborate on what happened after I left. 

"Joey, our drummer, quit, and Patrick decided to break up the band". I offer what condolences I can, thinking back to the days of Wicked Lester. But, they were bound to go to bigger things. "It's kind of sad. I've been with Lucky Star since I was what, 16?", 

"16?", I repeat, trying not to sound gobsmacked, "You joined at 16?". She confirms it, saying that her mother nearly had a heart attack at the news. We talk for a bit, about whatever we can think of. How her landlady smokes too much, how I should be less 'Mother-Hen' ish, until she brings up Gene, Eric, and Doc. 

"I can't get Doc in today, but Gene's here", another sound, clattering, echoes in the room, "Destroying my dishes". She giggles, and asks if there's a time for her to meet up with Gene, Eric, and I. 

"Does 10:30 work?", I check the clock again. She says yes, and asks the address, "24 Front Street, Brooklyn". The sound of a Sharpie being uncapped crackles over the line, as she writes down the address. 

"And, is it okay if I bring my gearbag?", the girl seems like she'd be too afraid to ask for a tissue if she had a nosebleed. 

"Sure", 

"Great, I'll see you at 10:30, then", she ends the call with a 'thanks so much'. I place the receiver back on the base, and leave the room. Gene's in the living room, wearing a wife-beater, and eating a bowl of cereal, while Magnum P.I. plays on the TV. 

"What are you-no, never mind", I enter the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, "Change, we've got someone coming over soon." The bassist scoffs, and turns the volume up. "It's the new guitarist", I add, causing him to freeze. His eyes widen, and head turns. 

"You found someone within a night? Well done, Paulie. How good is he?", Gene inquires, setting his bowl on the end table. 

"She's great", I reply, pouring the grounds into the coffeemaker. Gene raises an eyebrow, 

"She?", 

"Yes, Gene, she". 

He pauses, and sighs, before trying to explain himself. 

"Look, I'm not trying to be a chauvinist, or whatever the kids are calling it, but-is this going to work? What with hormones, or just using the spot to take a 'rocket ride'. " I scowl at him,

"Gene", 

"Fine, fine, I'll shut up", he mumbles, "What's the plan then?", he switches the channel to the news. "Great, more hypodermics", the story's about New Jersey, and the dirty needles washing up. "You catch AIDS that way, I read that in the paper". 

"You said last week people caught it from licking toilet seats", he rolls his eyes playfully, despite the dark subject matter. "I'll write a list for the songs, you call Eric, got it?", I take a mug out from a cabinet. Gene nods, grabbing the phone. 

The two of us are crossing out and rewriting the list, when Eric shows up, hair even puffier than normal. He sits close to Gene, and asks why we're writing a set list. "We don't have any tours planned, right?", 

"Paul found us a new guitarist", the taller man switches the channel back to Magnum P.I. 

"Oh, that's good. Are they coming here? Or are we going out to meet them?", he questions, crossing out Deuce, to replace it with Shock Me. Gene adds Parasite, and I remove God Of Thunder, much to his chagrin. We get so immersed, that I forget the time.

Or that the doorbell rings. I jump, and go to answer, revealing the five foot nine woman. In her left hand is her cased guitar and gearbag, in her right, a small dolly with a dusty amp. I notice she's wearing the same scarf as last night, and that she's duct taped the heels of her shoes back on. 

"The normal subway was full, and I had to take a different route. ", she apologizes, before introducing herself to Gene and Eric. I give her some space as she sets up, grabbing the list from the table. She takes it, reads through it, and hands it back to me, before plugging her beat up Fender to the amp. The first one written is my request from last night, which she starts directly at the guitar introduction, keeping time by tapping her heel. That explains the duct tape. The same energy is there, as we anticipate the solo. When it hits, she repeats the same backwards backbend, staring directly at the three of us, not breaking focus with the song, or her stare. She turns back, continuing the part, until the end of the song. 

I turn to look at Gene, whose expression reads 'what the holy hell?'. Goin' Blind is next, a break from her usual - style. She starts again, still repeating the tapping of her heel. Her fingers glide over the frets, just as easily as the last song. Even when 'sedated', that energy is present in her. It isn't perfect, she misses a note or two, but it's a fine stroke close. She doesn't back- or- front bend at the solo, rather bobbing her head. Gene watches her intently, fingertips pressed to his lower lip. Eric seems impressed, as she continues. The list is played through, our interest growing. Once she finishes with it, Cherry blows a piece of hair out of her face, and eagerly awaits our answer. 

Gene's got a scowl on his face, making her assume the worst. I cock my head, slightly confused, he liked the way she played, right? Eric does the same, while the girl looks at the floor, rubbing her arm. 

"Cherry, you've got to be crazy if you think this is going to work", he draws out his verdict, as she begins to pack up. 

"Well, thanks for letting me try anyways", she sounds like a kicked puppy, but doesn't shed any tears. As she's unplugging the amp from the wall socket, Gene speaks again. 

"Did I say you could leave?", there's a knowing smirk on his face, which I catch on to. "Lucky for you, crazy is what I'm aiming for", Cherry's gaunt face flushes crimson, as he continues. "I think all of us would agree that you've got real skill with that thing. We'd have to get Doc to confirm it with the press, but", he draws out the reply again. 

"Welcome to KISS", 


	5. The Verdict (part two)

Paul's P.O.V

She presses her hands to her mouth, as a few tears roll down her cheeks. She doesn't know what to say. The three of us look at each other, as she wipes the tears away. 

"T-thank you", she smiles, "Thank you so much", 

"We'll need you to sign a contract too, " Gene adds, dreading the idea of haggling with the record executives. 

"Shouldn't we call Doc first?", I inquire, "The man who you said would lose his mind?", 

"Fine, fine, having me do all the work today, Paulie", he toys, dialing our manager, "Doc, it's Gene", I look over to Cherry, who seems to have composed herself, mostly. "Yeah, we found a new guitarist, don't have an aneurysm", Gene elaborates, "Yeah, she's here, you want to talk to her?", he hands the receiver over, and she gingerly plucks it from his grasp. 

"This is Cherry", she answers, and pauses while he speaks. She rubs her arm again, not sure what to anticipate, "Am I going to need to take off work?", Cherry seems anxious, as Doc continues his side of the conversation. The dark-haired girl looks at the three of us, with that unsure expression plastered on. A few moments later, she nods. "I'm committed to this. I-I can't even legally buy booze, much less get addicted conventionally."

He's going off about Ace again, isn't he? Another silent few moments, before she answers one of his questions. 

"I can see about Tuesday, the store's closed t-then", she ends the call shortly after. 

"Well?', Eric questions, "What'd he say?", 

"I'm signing the contract, where do I find a lawyer in three days?", she hands the receiver back to me, before running her hands through her scalp. 

"Don't you have a cousin that went to law school, foxy?", Gene pokes Eric's shoulder, to receive a 'no'. 

"Well, your dad works under NBC, he's got to know a contract lawyer, or something", I suggest, to which she agrees. 

"Yeah, I'd probably have a decent chance with that", her nervous giggle is apparent. 

"So, the contract's being signed Tuesday, what's the plan for the rest of the week?", I raise an eyebrow. 

"Well, work, dealing with my pervy neighbor, picking up some old clothes from my other neighbor", she lists off on her thin, calloused fingers. 

"No meetings or conferences in the week?", Gene asks, she shakes her head no.

"Just getting the thing signed, and he lectured me on drugs". The bassist seemingly understands, mumbling under his breath. She asks to call her dad, ten minutes past 11. I hand her the receiver again, and his work number is dialed. When he picks up, Cherry begins in an utterly defeated tone , "Dad, I need to tell you about the audition", she winks at us, waiting for him to finish with his apology, before changing her mood, "I got in", she's put on speaker while he yells to his co-workers. 

"My daughter's working with KISS!", to which a cheer erupts through the office. Cherry grimaces, as if silently saying 'dammit dad'. A chunk of the production team are clamoring for the line, trying to congratulate her or simply offer misplaced advice. 

"Guys, c-calm down, can I just speak to my dad?", she tries to tame the group, until Dante gets the line back. "I'm going over to the record company on Tuesday, do you know any lawyers?", this unintentionally provokes the staff, with several people shouting about a 'Ronald Terry,' or a 'Tim Kirk'. The guitarist stares at us, mouthing "see what he has to deal with". 

"There's a man in Manhattan I can call about", Dante shushes his coworkers, flipping through his rolodex, until he seemingly finds the right card. 

"James Harris", another person cheers, but is quickly silenced. 

"Thanks so much, Dad", Cherry ends the call, turning speaker mode off. "So that's my dad's production room, on a typical Saturday", 

"Jeez, I'd go insane if I had to deal with that", Eric quips. 

Around 11:30, she leaves, saying I should call her if anything comes up. I open the door, after she finishes packing her things. As soon as the door closes, Gene starts coming up with personas for her. 

"Maybe 'The Spider', because, good God no normal human can bend that way", 

"Gymnasts are a thing, Genie", Eric adds on, "Maybe 'The Snake' could work."

"How about we save the discussion for when she's signed on", I suggest, much to their chagrin. 

The other two leave around noon, after Gene finally puts something over the wife-beater. Eric gives a quick wave, before leaving with the larger man. I finish my coffee, and place the mug in the sink. My thoughts turn to Ace again. He seems, fine, but how fine could he really be? We weren't the best to each other. Especially when he was drunk, or when I was exhausted. I guess the status, mixed with my actions drove him to drink so much. But, now I'm concerned for Cherry. She's young, inexperienced in the industry, and potentially vulnerable. Granted, she can hose a fairy down with a soda, but I doubt she'd be able to hold her own against someone more imposing. The phone rings as I wash out the cereal bowl Gene left. 

"Paul Stanley", I announce, to get someone I didn't expect on the other end. 

"Heya, Paul", Ace greets. Speak of the devil and he shall come, I guess. 

"What do you want?", my tone a bit too harsh. He laughs. Of course he would. 'Ziggy Stardust' is playing in the background, slightly masked by TV static. 

"How's it going, Poodle?", he uses his old nickname for me, much to my-disgust? 

"I'm fine. Why are you calling me?", I ask, looking at Cherry's number, taped to the fridge. 

"Because I think it's time I make up for what happened between us." I blink, taken aback. 

"Where's Ace, and what did you do with him?", I bark, "Because that's not the Ace I know". He brushes off the comment, as if it's something he hears every day. 

"Poodle, you're hilarious, you know that, right?". I scoff. If this is some attempt to start the relationship over again, he's over his head. Especially now that I'm with Donna. But, I'll bite.

"Do you want to meet somewhere?", I sit down, crossing my legs on the arm of my sofa. He agrees, suggesting the Nighthawk. Monday, at noon. "Better make it worth my time, Spaceman", 

I spend a few hours writing terrible lyrics, planning out the contract meetup, and pacing around the house. I think of what the bigwigs would do about her, this scrawny girl with eyes that seem too big for her face. In a way, she reminds me of a friend's kid sister, I would feel legitimately bad if some guy beat her up. Maybe I should get her something. Like a welcome present, or whatever suburban moms call it. 

"You're in early", the man at the instrument shop greets, "repairs or purchases?", I tap my fingers on the counter, scanning the shelves. Her guitar looks worn down, with a rusty machine head and peeling red paint. A strangely shaped Fender is on a shelf between two Gibson flying Vs, the body a gross shade of orange, and a jet black pickguard. But, that can be fixed. 

"How much do you want for that one?", I point toward the instrument. 

"That ugly thing?, I don't know, 100 bucks?", I fish out my card, and wait as he takes it from the shelf. "Anything else I can do for you?", he slicks his greying hair back. 

"Could you have the body repainted?", 


	6. Author's note 2

So, to clear up any glaring issues with Cherry and her status as transgender.

>She’s on HRT (yes, that was a thing in 1984, I checked), and has had a sex change, but not a tracheal shave ( hence wearing the scarf all the time).

>Her parents don’t understand it, but they don’t really care too much. ‘Just another thing people her age do’. Since her dad is under the banner, he 'gets it’ more. Most of her extended family are incredibly transphobic, though.

>She refuses to reveal she’s trans, out of a valid fear she’ll be hurt or blacklisted from the music industry.

>Her dad lies about her to co-workers, saying she’s a 'hermaphrodite’. (I think people believed that was a thing back then)

This probably makes no sense, but it's just information. I also know there could be holes in this, feel free to point them out. 


	7. All Bite, No Bark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied pedophilia, a slur, and alcohol abuse.

Paul's P.O.V

Sunday flashes in the blink of an eye, and before I can truly react, I'm in a booth towards the back of Nighthawk's. Ace hasn't shown up yet, which worries me. I try to rationalize it, just traffic. Not alcohol poisoning, not alcohol poisoning. I swirl my straw around my glass of water, as the overhead music switches to 'Boys Don't Cry'. Thanks, universe. My mind flickers back to the last fight we had. He was crying, I was screaming. I remember what we did that led up to it. There was beer on his breath, even though he promised he'd get sober. I remember pushing him off the bed, essentially kicking a man while he was down. At least Donna and Gene don't know. She'd leave for two reasons, her boyfriend being a fag, and that I got violent. He'd probably throw me out faster than I could say 'Starchild'. I guess they're the reasons I'm dreading every moment of this meeting. Someone places their hands over my eyes, and asks

"Guess who?", 

"Ace?", I offer, to which he confirms. 

"Yep", he pops the 'P', before sitting across from me. "How are you?", 

"I'm okay", I lie. He places his chin on his palm before asking about the band. 

"We're fine", I give a quick answer, trying not to look at my-ex? Ex. 

"C'mon, Paul, you've got to give me more than that", Ace smiles. I can barely bring myself to gaze over at him.

"I fired Mark", I oblige, much to his surprise. 

"Only after a few months?", 

"Let's just say, it would make 'sense' for a Catholic priest", I lower my voice, hoping the other patrons don't hear. His eyes widen in shock. 

"You mean he-", he pantomimes the act with an uncomfortable amount of fluidity. I nod curtly, wishing he doesn't continue it further. "Well, I'm glad you booted him. Do you have a new one lined up?", 

"We do, she's going over to Casablanca with us tomorrow", the two of us look over the menus. 

"You seem to have things figured out. I've got another album in, three months?", 

"How's the drinking?", I ask, immediately regretting it. He tenses up, unsure how to respond, or potentially thinking back to that night. "Ace, I'm sorry, I didn't-", the waitress comes back, asking for our orders. I order a sandwich, he orders a burger, desperate to avoid my eyes. When she leaves the table side again, Ace answers my question, his breath hitching. 

"I'm trying Paul", 

I groan internally. I just gave him a flashback, didn't I? 

"Ace, I'm sorry, I'm such an idiot", I smack the table, and press my hands to my temples, "this is why we- broke up", I add on in a near inaudible whisper. 

"Paul, you were mad, I lied to you", 

"That doesn't mean I should have thrown you off the bed. Then screamed bloody murder at you", 

He starts to rub my shoulder, I don't react. He shouldn't be doing this, he shouldn't be apologizing for the stupid things I did to him. 

'Stop thinking about yourself, Ace is going to cry'. 

The dejected man's eyes start to well up with tears, in a feeble attempt to keep himself composed. 

"Don't excuse me, I just regret-everything that made you feel that way", 

The guitarist nods, as the waitress returns with our food. I thank her, to receive a wink. We awkwardly eat in silence, until Ace breaks it, a few tears rolling down his cheeks as holdover. 

"You went over to Black Market on Friday night, didn't you?", I say yes, confused as to why he's asking. He's still drinking. Great. 

"Was that girl the one you hired?", 

"There were two girls in that band", 

"Neon pink scarf," he clarifies, hoping it will ring a bell. 

"Yeah, that's her", 

"Good. Good", his voice trails off, before taking a bite of his burger. He's upset still. 

"Do you, do you want to go back to your place?", I can regret this later, but now, I have to do something to comfort Ace. He gives me a sad stare, like a kitten in those shelter commercials. 

When I pay the bill, he plays with my free hand under the table. I try to pretend he's someone else. It'll be easier to deal with. Back at his apartment, we watch an episode of Fridays, as he lays his head near my lap. Donna, forgive me for what I'm about to do. I run my fingers through his hair, letting him place his head on my lap. He-purrs? It's going to be the longest hour of my life, apparently. I let the 'Jendellian' kiss me, even though my hesitation and guilt are on full display. Maybe he's taking advantage of that, it wouldn't be too out of left field for him. 

"I miss you, " he mumbles under his breath. I block it from my mind, even though I miss him too. We can't get back together, not after what happened. I don't trust myself not to fuck up. I end up leaving with my heart in my stomach, and a need to cry. I can't risk what I have, only to repeat the past. Ace and I claimed to have changed, but how true could that really be? I don't let the cab driver see my eyes start to fill with tears, and I run back into the house, only to slam the door shut, and collapse, crying. 

Someone calls, I pick up, trying not to sound too emotional. 

"Hi, Paul, it's Donna", she answers, saying the trip is running longer than expected, and that her flight from Toronto is being cancelled. Blizzards, it seems. 

"Get back home safe, baby", I reply, the words sounding fake. 

"Paul, are you okay?", she inquires.

"I'm just tired, sweetheart", I lie, before she tells me to get some sleep. I hang up shortly after. 

The meeting is headed by two stiffly dressed execs, Cherry's stressed lawyer, the four of us, and Doc. Harris reads through the contract again, pointing out the questionable clauses, such as merchandising. 

"So, this means they're allowed to put my face on literally anything?", the 19 year old asks, slightly suspicious. Harris lets her elaborate further, "If they wanted to make a 'Monopoly' game with me on it, they'd be allowed to do it?", 

"Yes", 

"Are we allowed to amend this?", 

Gene looks taken aback by this, clearly not the answer he was expecting, "Why would you want to?", 

"I-I just don't think it's right", she rubs her arm. I guess that's one of her quirks, along with the insistence on wearing the scarf. 

"Well, what would feel 'right'?", one of the executives wearing a mustard yellow tie asks. 

"You know, t shirts, posters, action figures, maybe those drugstore valentine cards", 

"We're not going to make enough money that way, sweetie", Mustard tie uses the 'speaking to a toddler' tone with her. 

"If people like the music, they'll buy the merchandise, it's a win for both sides", Harris tries to explain. Mustard tie raises an eyebrow. 

"Mr. Harris, we're relying in tandem with record and merchandise sales", this man's head is so empty, I bet you could use it as a volleyball. Cherry pinches the bridge of her nose, and tries to explain herself again. 

"I'm not saying I don't want any merchandise, I just don't want to be put on anything ridiculous", she attempts to defend herself. 

"What exactly do you consider 'ridiculous' Ms. Lombardi?", an executive with a peacock blue blazer taps her fingers on the desk. 

"Waffle irons, underwear, personal products", her face flushes that familiar shade of red. 

"We'll see if the team can deal with this separately."

It feels like days have passed when Cherry signs the amended contract. Harris nearly collapses on the way to the taxi, and Doc silently cheers as we leave the record company's office, at 8 P.M.. Eric suggests we grab dinner at place called the Green Dragon, considering it's across the street. 

"I still don't get her hang up on merch. She's a pretty girl, she could probably sell hand lotion if she tried", Gene says to me as we cross the packed street. 

"I wouldn't want my face on a waffle iron, either", I deadpan, as the other man scoffs. Of course, when we enter the restaurant, there's some tabloid photographer, snapping as many pictures as possible. Cherry covers her face, almost instinctively. Gene sticks his tongue out, as Eric and I rush to book a table. 

"Gene, is this your girlfriend?", he barks, to be brushed off. She keeps covering her face, while Gene tells the photographer to fuck off. We get a table in the back, illuminated by a red Chinese lantern. Eric and Cherry sit next to each other, the same applying to Gene and I. 

"So, is your mom going to have a heart attack about this, too?", I ask, to which she shakes her head. 

"Nah, she thinks you guys are a bunch of dorks", 

"Dorks?", Eric repeats "I know Gene is, but-", 

"Oh, shut up", Gene rolls his eyes, as we order. Another photographer snaps a picture of us. This is why I preferred when we wore the bandanas. Our food arrives as we discuss when she needs to be in the studio. The record store 'Soundscapes' is closed Tuesdays and Saturdays, an odd schedule, but one we can work with fairly easily. She asks the address, taking a pen out of her shirt pocket. she takes a napkin, and jots down 56 Main, Queens. 

"Let's get to the fun part, your persona", Eric stuffs a potsticker in his mouth, before she gets a chance to speak, "I was thinking 'The Snake', 'cause the way you did that-I don't know what you call it", 

"I call it a backwards backbend", Cherry pokes at her noodles, she wants to say something, but doesn't know how to bring it up. But, the girl offers something. 

"This is going to sound really dumb, but, I had this character I drew when I was a teenager. I called her 'The Raven', because I was way too into Edgar Allen Poe, apparently". She takes another napkin, and starts to draw the character, with a Siouxsie Sioux haircut, a feathery mask over her eyes, and a stole. 

"We could work with that", Gene presses his chopsticks to his lip, looking up, and to the side. "Are we seriously going back to wearing the makeup?", I ask. 

"Well, we got lost in the shuffle with guitarists, so we didn't tour for-I've got it", Gene snaps his fingers. After a discussion on backstory, and four plates of food finished, we have things lined up. 

"I'll talk to the costume girl, she'll run a few things by you", Eric promises, too hopped up on MSG. 

"I've got a few things, for costumes. My, my neighbor does drag, and I get his old stage clothes", she suggests. 

"The pervert?", Gene snorts. 

"No, the pervert's just a pervert", Cherry laughs. We split the bill, and go our separate ways, returning to our parts of the city. 

"I should call Ace sometime, shouldn't I?", I ask aloud, unaware that the cab driver can hear me. 


End file.
